Staff broke into a laugh as the patter of the little man’s feet was heard on the stairs.
“Resourceful beggar,” he commented, going to the window and rolling up the coat as he went. He reached it just in time to see the thief dodge out.
The coat, opening as it descended, fell like a blanket round Ismay’s head. He stumbled, tripped and fell headlong down the steps, sprawling and cursing.
“Thought you might need it,” Staff apologised as the man picked himself up and darted away.
He turned to confront an infuriated edition of Alison.
“Why did you do that?” she demanded with a stamp of her foot. “What right had you to interfere? I was beating him down; in another minute we’d have come to terms—”
“Oh, don’t be silly, my dear,” said Staff, taking his revolver from the desk-drawer and placing it in the hip-pocket of tradition. “To begin with, I don’t mind telling you I don’t give much of a whoop whether you ever get that necklace back or not.” He grabbed his hat and started for the door. “What I’m interested in is the rescue of Miss Searle, if you must know; and that’s going to happen before long, or I miss my guess.” He paused at the open door. “If we get her, we get the necklace, of course—and the Lord knows you’ll be welcome to that. Would you mind turning out the lights before you go?”
“Staff!”
Her tone was so peremptory that he hesitated an unwelcome moment longer.
“Well?” he asked civilly, wondering what on earth she had found to fly into such a beastly rage about.